It is the loss of you to lose, loss, lost, I say over
trying the words out, tiring the words out
making it be about words and not the boat inside the words
not the freckle, not the floam
It is the yellow you imagined your hair to be
your light thought like
the space between a cup and the liquid it holds
I would hold you now, cup your face
in my hands I would say here, here, I would say, girl
and my hands are better boats after all
but there is no one to carry and there is no body
of water to cross
Let us go to another room
the softness of the air
an index finger traces
the shape of a rose on a shoulder
What is not spoken
is not done
Everything existed once
in that room
and now need
only be found
O asterisk, unmurk my night’s volume.
Chase alike the blazes streaming as stems, not spears aimed to dim the rosyed and tin- seling tributaries, not spears aimed to only the darkling in the not. When and
solely your bulb bursts within, I too will be of yester floral and melodies ever calling off the hunt of lassie-drifts in the eons of my brackish youth.
As nearly ever, I call out from countless minds that inlet night, Excite their wakes to a whole
nother! O asterisk, electrocute this dark cove. O asterisk, keep lit and come to lay day on my unluminous slum.
Umbel a blizzard
in each rhubarb stuck stalk, for I no longer herald their swing to flamingo legs. Shot from the half dark diamonds that waive their away; I've pressured blitzen in those who have quit their fission, knowing still lets the solar unshatter the shady half. Mynah Nomore, your beat- empty organs mite madness our porching possibilities; once standing and smooching, you now tempt the worms looting. Mine above the grounded; my beat-plenty organs amp cupids to you. I'm perennially in croon, I'm left and unpruned, I'm here hushing on a whiteout to lose direction from you.
They took spoons that gleaned their concave grins, stone-carving of an unnamed goddess, the impossibility of understanding language after lovemaking, and the understanding that a leaf on the scrim of river could be more precious than a lung of molten gold
—then they named it silver
and mynah, after the throated bird,
the word without gilt in its broad broken O;
they named it money,
music, forcefield, inhalation, snow.
Of course they were not to be trusted. Hunters never are.
Their father (first one to lick memory off his fingers as if it were spilled wine)
could not walk past a rock without prying it up,
without crouching down to peer dentist-like
into the dark-open below.
Like their father, they knew
what is desired
shifts under the feet
of a faithless generation.
They knew the word in plate tectonics
to describe the precise moment
when a single land mass
yawns into seven.
But is there such a moment
to describe what they found
when they hunted for you?
A line has no beginning. A sigh, no friend. The fish has no eyelids.
A ball of twine, no end.
And had there been lightning
in your body, and thunder
in your step—even then, could you
Would you have wanted
not to see yourself
upside down in silver,
from a scrolled handle,
the world lipped around your shoulder,
dipping into soup?
Nautilus and spade,
we glean as almost any other mostly. Sudden to pinwheel at somite. Panicled ...........mingo, .....................hysteria mingles us so. We sway unless lassoed, .............................so long longing. Fuchsia's insomniac seek soma us hype-heartedly;
quiet still synchronized splendors in our lung filled eyes. .....................Retinacular swinging little doors; hibiscus lures. We stray in doors.